The Treachery
by Aviary
Summary: I think I've created something really original here... A necromancer resurrects Balthazar from Hell, setting into motion a chain of events that leads to the discovery of a plot, beyond all measure of deception and cruelty... Balthazar/OC. Plot-intensive.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Also, no attempt was made for this story to be in any way factual... all religious/demonic scenes are purely the creation of my imagination. As an aside, reading Dante's _Inferno_ may help slightly - it was a major source of inspiration.

Chapter 1

"…_Demon of Hell, I summon thee from the Gates of Dis_

_By the Power of the Wrath of Lucifer_

_All Praise be to the Fallen One forevermore_

_I command the Deity Charon_

_Accept this mortal blood as payment_

_For the immortal soul of the Demon Balthazar" _

Vivian Charbonneau spoke slowly, sitting on her living room floor at the base of a large pentagram. The symbol was burned into the dark hardwood and traced in salt; each of the five points marked with a lit candle, in honour of the five demons of Hell whose help she would need to complete her task. Under each candle, Vivian wrote the name of its dark Deity idol in chalk – at the base, Minos and Plutus; at each arm, Phlegyas and the Fallen Angels; at the head, pointing due east, Charon, eternal ferryman of the River Acheron. In the center of the arcane symbol, she'd written Balthazar's name in the language of the immortals, so that none may mistake the subject of her summoning.

With a small kitchen knife, the Necromancer made a tiny incision in the tip of her forefinger, squeezing two drops of her blood over the flame of Charon's candle, watching it crackle and sizzle with a whisp of dark grey smoke. Immediately, the temperature in the room began to rise, slowly at first, and then to the point where it became unbearable with the arid heat of Hell; Vivian closed her eyes to the intense warmth, but didn't move - it lasted only a few moments, dissipating as quickly as it had set on. Opening her eyes once more, Vivian glanced immediately down at the pentagram. Sprawled before her in the center of her salt-drawn symbol was the Demon Balthazar. He was laying face-down and completely naked, lightly tanned skin covered with cuts and burns, ranging in severity. Several deep lashes, inflicted upon him fairly recently etched across the man's back; a small trickle of blood fell from one of the massive cuts and dripped slowly to her floor. His arms and legs were laced with burns and minor scrapes, and all of his skin was covered with a layer of soot and filth, saturated into his wounds.

The woman broke the circle of salt, feeling the last hot air of Hell pour from it like blood from a blister. She touched a hand to the Demon's shoulder, drawing it back quickly as she felt the heat of his flesh frothing under her touch. Vivian rose and retreated to her washroom, returning moments later with two sopping wet bath towels; she draped them over his body in a blanket of ice-water, and slowly he began to wake.

He looked up at her with somnolent, empty eyes. She was thin, but not beautiful; her deathly pale skin and cream-white lips made her seem sickly and fragile. Her hair was black and long, falling lifelessly down either side of her face to the middle of her ribcage where it thinned and ended in irregular, shapeless tresses – the product of years of split-ends. Vivian was only in her early 30's, but the Demon could swear her hair was already flecked with grey. The woman's eyes were hazel and not particularly pretty, but she had thick, dark lashes and gently sweeping eyebrows that gave them a sort of could-be glamour, and a look of definite intelligence. She wore a simple black sleeveless shirt and grey sweatpants, both garments well-worn and moth-eaten – but to Balthazar, it didn't matter. To him, now, she was ravishing.

"Vivian…" he began softly, only to be silenced with a long, soft shush. Carefully, the woman placed her hand on his back, over the fabric of the bath towels to turn him over, mindful not to drag him through the salt. The place where she'd drawn his name in the pentagram was bare, and instead the ancient writing had tattooed itself in black over his breastbone, in the center of his chest. She immediately brought her fingers to the mark and touched it very lightly, leaning into him to kiss his neck; he didn't move to welcome her, but rather drank in the scent of her hair, so near his lips. It smelled as always, faintly of cigarettes and flowers, from her shampoo.

Gently, she clasped his head in her hands, kissing his forehead once before pulling away,

"Can you get up?" Vivian prodded, watching Balthazar's head fall in fatigue as she withdrew.

"Yes." His reply was remarkably soft. Slowly, the Necromancer helped him to his feet, and then to her bathroom; it was the first door to the right down the hallway separating the den from the kitchen.

The walls were a yellow-gold; the floor: bare concrete. A large free-standing porcelain-white shower-bathtub stood against the back wall, taking up most of the space in the small room. Filigree patterned brown shower curtains encircled the bath, draped from a brass rod. In sharp contrast to the relative luxury of the washroom, the space's only light was a bare incandescent bulb hanging by its wire from the ceiling. Dangling from the light was a rather large spider, all legs and belly as it manoeuvred gracefully on the end of an invisible thread. With a soft thud, Balthazar sank into Vivian's bathtub, towels and all. She turned on the faucet as soon as he'd lie down before her, pulling the lever to turn on the showerhead. He sighed quietly under the stream of ice-cold water and threw his head back over the rim, eyes closed.

"You can use my housecoat once you're finished," Vivian added demurely, turning to the door, "I'm going to the pharmacy. It's just down the street, I'll be back soon."

The Necromancer left the room and shut the door, donning a pair of well-worn black sneakers before she exited the apartment. The corridor outside her flat was painted a shade of sterile grey, with identically coloured cheap, if durable carpets. Though she thought the shade was chosen to hide the grime and filth that had collected on the walls (she knew no one had ever washed them in the time she'd owned her apartment), it succeeded only in accentuating the grunge and dust that had gathered on the doorframes and ingrained itself into the carpet through thorough use and seldom cleanings. She looked up briefly; several dead insects were in the ceiling light cover just above her head, casting winged silhouettes against the sterile brightness of the sunken fluorescent bulbs inside. The basement level flats shared the space under the building with the apartment's underground parking. There were only 5 other units like her own, spanning a single strip just under the front of the building. A glass and metal door led out into the parking garage, and next to it, an industrial steel elevator took her either up to the street, or down to the maintenance level. She pushed the button to release the lift doors; they opened immediately. Technically, it was a service elevator and tenants weren't supposed to use it, but the building's main lift that ferried to the basement broke down several months ago, and Vivian was never one to take the stairs.

She stepped out of the building's small lobby and into the LA night, immediately pulling a cigarette from a package in her pocket and lighting it. It was early September, and the air was still hot and sticky with the city's pollution. The street was dark, though tall, heavy grey streetlamps shone down on the empty road. Vivian turned to the gleaming white lights of the 24-hour pharmacy, striding quickly passed stoplights that changed for no one. A taxi was waiting in the drug store parking lot – its driver glanced up at her from behind a book as she walked by. He was young, just a kid, she thought as she returned the gesture with one final drag from her cigarette before heading inside.

†††

Balthazar rose from the bathtub and turned off the icy water after several minutes with some effort. He felt better – far better than he had when he'd first been raised from Hell. Dressing in the woman's wool housecoat, the demon folded the soaked bath towels Vivian had first wrapped him in and left them in her bath; one of them was stained pink with his blood. He turned off the light as he left the room, and walked down the hallway to the apartment's den.

Her flat was small and rectangular, the majority of it comprised by the living room and adjoining kitchen. The den was dark, but tasteful and eclectic. A large, deep brown leather chesterfield took up most of the space. The longest of the apartment's dark olive green walls had the subterranean apartment's only windows; two small slats cut from the stone of the building, and covered, as it was night time, by stained rosewood blinds. The sofa sat on a black shag area rug, which served to cover the massive pentagram carved into Vivian Charbonneau's dark hardwood floor. A rectangular oak coffee table with a glass center shared the black rug, standing between the chesterfield and a large entertainment center of the same material. The flat's kitchen shared the space, divided from the den only by a breakfast bar and change of flooring – in this case, faux slate linoleum. Her kitchen was painted a dark chestnut with black appliances, black tile countertops and stained honey-oak cabinets that were so golden they were almost yellow. Two stainless steel and black leather chairs faced into the kitchen from the den-side of the breakfast bar, creating a sort of breakfast nook that Balthazar guessed served as her only eating area.

Balthazar stepped carefully over the arguably hideous shag rug, towards her sofa. He felt the gashes on his back tear open as he moved to lie down, bleeding slightly into her clean, cream-coloured robe. The fabric of her housecoat was soft, but it bit into his wounds just the same, making the cuts on his back hurt and bleed. He remembered how and where he'd gotten them – as clearly as he remembered every seemingly eternal torture he'd received in Hell – it would take days for him to forget, or at least put it out of his mind. Three days, he approximated, since the Exorcist Constantine sent him to Hell. He'd failed the Diablo, Lucifer, and for it, he'd suffered the flames of Dis – that torture, the Exorcist did not know. He would gladly take the Wood of Suicides over the Eighth Circle of Hell, Balthazar mused, almost smiling. But that was over, and now he felt nothing but the coolness of the icy water drying from his hair, and the softness of Vivian's bathrobe, and the pleasant dull ache of his name etched into the tender flesh on his chest.

†††

It was a little passed midnight according to the clock above the pharmaceutical counter; Vivian noticed there was another man in the store with her, ordering a prescription – the taxi was probably waiting for him. She took a basket and did her shopping quickly, cleaning out the pharmacy's supply of gauze and Neosporin, as well as taking packages of generic men's underwear and socks. When she got to the store's one checkout counter, the man was standing ahead of her. He was dressed in a black suit with a plain white button-down shirt; quite professional, for the middle of the night.

"Good luck," Vivian mentioned, as she watched the cashier ring up half a dozen consecutive packages of nicotine patches for him. She knew she reeked of cigarette smoke, and he probably hated her for it.

"Thanks." He half-turned his head as he spoke, and it was enough for her to recognize him. John Constantine – of course it was him. He did look different now, she thought. The bags he'd had under his eyes from the first time she caught a glimpse of him were beginning to fade, and his skin was distinctly less pallid. But then, it was no secret what had happened between him and Mammon, and what Satan had done to him, to let him live.

She watched him pay and leave, without saying a word as to what he'd done, or offering any indication that she was more than a woman restocking her medicine cabinet. He might have known of her; as an Exorcist he probably would, but they'd never met and he'd have no way of recognizing her, or knowing her ties to Balthazar.

"Your total comes to forty-one dollars, even," the cashier said, breaking her thoughts. Vivian dug the money from her pocket and paid in exact change; she took the brown bag with her purchases off the counter and walked back outside, in time to watch the taxi pull away and dart off down the street. The woman turned for her apartment, weight of the bag making her bicep, weak from chronic smoking, curve through her papery skin as she walked.

†††

The only light in the church that night was the glow from 15 small lit candles, adorning the ivory-draped altar; each in a fitted glass cup painted with an image of the Madonna. Their flames caught shadows from the stone and plaster sculptures of Angels lining the Cathedral's walls, casting them like charcoal tendrils onto the painted ceiling. The scent of slowly decaying cloth and fading incense filled the air, dank with the Los Angeles heat and compounded by the candle's radiance. And in a darkly varnished wooden pew, the once-Angel Gabriel sat. In her hands she clutched a well-worn bible, brown leather binding supple and smooth against her skin. Gold lettering embossed on the cover had begun to fade, leaving small, underwhelming flecks of shine in place of the words "Holy Bible." Gabriel could identify.

"It's awfully late." The voice was soft, but it pierced the nighttime silence of the chapel without warning – Gabriel tensed briefly with the unfamiliar tingle of adrenaline.

"Father Francis," She answered placidly, turning half-heartedly to glance at his feet over her shoulder. He was a young man, easily in his late twenties – _but every ounce of youthful energy and passion within him was spent on the Glory of God,_ the once-Angel thought, in reverie. He sat next to her, folding his robes under himself as he sunk delicately into the pew,

"Angel Gabriel." The words stung more than she thought they would. She did not correct him – he already knew everything, but found some pleasure in reminding her of what she'd forsaken. "Isn't it beautiful?" he asked in rhetoric after some time, gazing up at the high, gilded ceiling. "But you must know it pales in comparison to the real thing, of course… Don't you wish that you could tell them all how beautiful it is? That you could show them Heaven, and make them see all its splendour?" The woman turned her head from him, glancing down at the holy text in her hands,

"I do wish that." Father Francis leaned over slightly, switching his eyes to her Bible,

"You know every word, don't you?" he asked gently, wearing a small smile.

"Yes," she replied in earnest contentedness, "and I shall never forget—"the Priest interrupted her, speaking no more forcefully than he had at all that evening,

"But that won't save you," He said it delicately, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You made a bargain with the Devil, Gabriel, and he will come for you." With a small sigh, the Priest brought his lips to her cheek, kissing her in empathy.

"I failed," she answered, almost despairingly, voice soft with fear and hopeful justification, "I wasn't able to bring Mammon unto us—"

"You're using Heaven's logic, Gabriel," he answered her, with the tone of a parent comforting a child after scolding her; "Your incompetence will not save you... Satan aided you; he fulfilled his end of the covenant, didn't he?" Tenderly, Father Francis touched his hand to her face, stroking her ivory cheek with the backs of his fingers, "You're a mortal now, Gabriel – a _woman_- and soon the time will come for you to pay him back…" The Priest's guarded smile flickered, as though trying not to grin, "He'll come for your soul, Angel Gabriel. And when he's through with you, you'll have wished you hadn't a soul to give…" Finally, she spoke, slightly bolder,

"I shall never surrender my soul to Lucifer." Father Francis breathed a small sigh, as if his pity were only for her denial,

"You could always give your soul to me, Gabriel. After all, I'm sure the pain will be… _exquisite_ – who knows what you may be willing to do?"

Sharply, Gabriel struck him across the face, his cheek white where her hand had met it. The slap of skin-against-skin rang out and echoed in the empty church, breaking the silence with a deafening crack. The woman rose quickly, stepping into the aisle with mock-audacity, striding from the fire-lit church in silence. Father Francis ascended from the pew after her, leaning forward from where he stood. His words boomed in the ancient Cathedral, splitting the placid night air with sound, speaking heresy with a gloating grin;

"Only you can slake the lust of Lucifer!"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Author's Note: I had no idea this would be as big of a deal to readers as it seems to be, but, Chas is alive, and Gabriel is indeed a woman. My deviation from the plot with regard to Chas is explained in detail in chapter 3, which will be posted before Christmas.

Chapter 2

"Take us to Midnite's," John Constantine instructed from the back seat of Chas' cab. At present, the famed Exorcist was occupying himself with rolling up his sleeve, peeling off what he deemed to be 'used' nicotine patches and replacing them with fresh ones. Four of the unsatisfying plastic stickers currently adorned his pale bicep, arranged edge to edge in a haphazard rectangle. The car dipped and weaved through the city's many shabby, dimly-lit alleyways, Kramer watching his mentor from out the rear-view mirror;

"I don't think that's how you're supposed to-" The young man's speculation was cut short;

"Shut up and drive."

They arrived at the nightclub shortly, Chas Kramer parking his taxi in an inconspicuous side-road, near the door. Constantine exited, and, with slender hope of actually getting in, so did the boy. Together, the pair walked towards the club's sunken entrance, red light and softly pulsing music pouring out into the night air.

"A frog in a cloud," the Exorcist informed the bouncer nonchalantly, bondage-clad guard lifting the red velvet rope without a word of protest.

"A crow with a lollipop," Chas dared, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible, and failing miserably. To his utter shock, the enormous man lifted the velvet rope, waiting for him to pass. "You mean I got in? Oh my God!"

The music inside the club pulsed with the crowd, dim red light filling the space with a sort of suffocating haze – the closeness of dark silhouetted bodies seemingly malevolent. _It was packed tonight_, Constantine mused, half-watching to make sure Chas wasn't doing anything stupid, _and almost entirely with Angels_. Slowly, John made his way across the floor to Papa Midnite's office of sorts, Chas not needing to be told to wait outside the blood-red bureau. The Exorcist opened the padded crimson door, almost flinching when he saw the Angel standing behind it, exiting the office. It wasn't a half-breed, timid and impure; this was a purebred, a full-blood Archangel. He stood taller than Constantine, maybe 6'5" with purest white skin and thick brown hair flecked with gold, falling to his shoulders in effortless waved tresses. He was very masculine, with features almost too sharp to be overtly attractive – and a stature and carriage that commanded power and doubtless adoration.

"Michael," the Exorcist spoke briefly, guarding his tone against revealing shock.

"Exorcist John Constantine," the Archangel responded, voice commanding victory. He did not speak with any hidden malice, but rather with a tone that suggested he would respect the mortal before him only once he'd proven himself before the One True God – if three words could speak such volumes.

The Angel passed without speaking again, leaving John to meet with Mr. Midnite alone - entering the rogue study, the Voodoo Priest looked almost unsettled.

"What's going on?" The Exorcist began, gesturing behind him to where the Archangel Michael was standing, only moments ago.

"A Demon has been set free from Hell."

"All this, for one Demon?" Constantine began, "There must be 50 Angels out there, Midnite-! Not to mention Michael; Jesus, it's been a while since _he_ showed himself." The crimson-clad man drew a rather long drag from a cigarillo, indifferent to John's presence.

"He's a First Circle Construct, John. And something isn't right with him either… The way he was raised wasn't like anything the Angels have seen before, in a long time." The Exorcist shrugged,

"They'll deport him eventually." He paused, watching as his words earned a look of rare uncertainty from Midnite. Constantine waited a moment before he spoke, voice bearing a definite edge; "There's something you're not telling me."

"If the Angels deport him, John, things may not look good for us." The Exorcist had the gut feeling this had nothing to do with what the man was actually hiding.

"Are you talking about war?" The Voodoo Priest sighed,

"No. Not because of this alone." John smirked,

"Are you suggesting, then, that I go after this Demon, to keep things neutral?" Midnite took another long drag, exhaling in the man's general direction;

"I can't even suggest, John. But you know what to do." Constantine strode over to the man's desk, slamming his hands down on the counter with more force than he'd originally intended,

"I don't want bullshit, Midnite! At least tell me where I can find the Demon, its name-!" The ancient Priest rose from his seat, with vigour to match the Exorcist's,

"You _know_ I can't _ask_ those questions!" Disgruntled, John turned from him, glancing back over his shoulder once he'd reached the door,

"I'm not getting involved, Midnite," he half-scoffed in a foul mood, "not this time."

Outside the nightclub office, Constantine found Chas quickly; he was sitting at the bar, talking to a slender blonde in a black skirt.

"Chas-" the Exorcist called him from the young woman, pleasantly surprised when the boy obeyed.

"John!" The young man started, voice hushed despite the noise of the club, "That man who left as you went in, was that-?!" The Exorcist grabbed Chas' shoulder,

"Yes. Shut up, we're leaving." Kramer didn't speak until they'd exited the club, but the moment the pair hit the fresh coolness of the night air, he burst into inquiry;

"Did you fucking see that John? Did you? There were like a hundred fucking Angels in there John! That was, that was the fucking Archangel Michael, John!-" The Exorcist swatted the kid over the head – not hard, but enough to make him feel it;

"I fucking know, Chas. And be quiet." The kid moved to talk, but John spoke before he could.

"The Angels are there because a Demon was raised from Hell."

"Oh," Chas began, instantly calmer now that he had something intelligent to add; "I read about that – a Demon gains freedom by earning favour with Lucifer - when that happens, the Demon no longer has to serve Satan- they can walk among the living as they wish, and return to live in the city of Dis-" the boy grinned, "they can even take mates-" The last statement earned him a look of minor disgust from the Exorcist.

"That's not what happened, Chas. Apparently, this Demon was raised from Hell through unconventional means." The young man paused a moment in his speech, jogging slightly to catch up with Constantine's long, un-smoke-hindered stride.

"Necromancy?" John scoffed,

"Something like that." Chas shook his head,

"Isn't that supposed to be… illegal?" The Exorcist uttered a sardonic laugh,

"Yeah." Constantine opened the rear-door of the taxi, waiting for Chas to take the driver's seat before he continued, "Typically, it isn't too big of a deal, if a Necromancer brings a mortal back to our plane from Heaven or Hell – it's black magic, but most of the time it doesn't change anything. With Demons, it's different, sometimes anyway. Whatever Demon was raised from Hell doesn't belong here – and the Angels will do everything in their power to send it back, if it poses enough of a threat." Chas started the car, "This Demon was a First Circle Construct." Kramer gave his mentor a hesitant glance,

"He was alive for the War in Heaven?" The Exorcist chuckled quietly at his protégé's trepidation,

"He murdered Angels, probably thousands of them."

"So, what does this have to do with us, John?" Chas dared to ask, backing the car out of the alleyway where he'd parked.

"Nothing." The kid coughed in surprise,

"You mean we aren't going after him – we aren't going to deport him?" John scoffed,

"Nope. We're not crossing paths with a goddamn Archangel, Chas – and he isn't like Gabriel, either." The Exorcist's apprentice rolled his eyes,

"You're just not going to do it because there isn't anything in it for you." John smirked – something he'd been doing a lot more of since the Devil lifted his death-sentence.

"Sure."

†††

Vivian returned to her flat to find the Demon lying motionless on her chesterfield, his eyes closed.

"Balthazar," She called, making sure he was awake. He responded with a groan of dissent, accompanied by a small, unseen smirk,

"Do we have to do this now?" the man protested, though he opened his eyes. Vivian smiled with mirth, handing him a pair of generic boxers,

"Put these on." The only privacy she gave him was to turn her back and arrange the medical supplies on her breakfast bar while he donned the underwear. "I-" she stopped herself, not turning to face him. He said nothing, but walked up behind her, until she could feel the heat of his body radiating onto her back.

"I know." He spoke softly, never touching her. Vivian couldn't smile, not now.

"Lie down," she turned to him, "oh… here, let me take this-" gently she clutched the soft ivory fabric of her housecoat, pulling it from his shoulders. Thin, red lines stained through the cloth where his wounds had bled through; the Necromancer minded them as she removed the garment. Balthazar slipped out of it in silence, but she'd seen him wince at the pain cloth alone had caused his injuries. Wordlessly, the Demon stepped over to her massive sofa and laid down in a sea of soft brown leather, his arms folded over the armrest nearest her. The woman took a roll of gauze and several tubes of antiseptic from the breakfast bar before she neared the Demon. Vivian sat down at the crook created by his knees, so that she could lean her body over his and dress his wounds – it was the first time she had the chance to see them at length.

The gashes that laced up and down his back were the worst of his injuries by far. The deepest of them cut perhaps a centimetre into his flesh – skin forcibly parted by the sheer force of the whip's strike, and creature wielding it who knew not of love.

"Oh, what have they done to you…" Vivian murmured, resting her hand gently on the base of his neck. His skin was healthy and warm under her fingertips, pulled taunt over his muscles despite his time in Hell. The dirt and soot from the fires and tortures he'd endured had been cleaned from him, revealing his flesh to be paler than Vivian remembered it, but familiar just the same.

"What they always do," Balthazar answered, looking over his shoulder as he said it. Although the Demon possessed some power on the mortal plane, wounds inflicted in Hell would heal slowly; as with those of a mortal. The Necromancer said nothing as she began to dress the lashes with antiseptic and gauze, fastening her bandages in place with strips of white medical tape.

Vivian finished after several minutes, rising to her feet once the last of the bandages were in place.

"Thank you." Balthazar mentioned softly, pushing himself up from her chesterfield; he moved slowly and deliberately, as not to disrupt the bindings covering his back. The woman stepped into the kitchen. She opened her fridge, and removed a butcher-paper packaged cut of meat, unwrapping it and setting it down on her counter. Over a small bowl, the Necromancer effectively wrung blood from the flesh, cutting it vertically with a smooth-edged kitchen knife to draw as much of the fluid as possible. The demon stepped into the kitchen, having a fairly good idea what she was doing;

"Lamb's blood?" he mentioned, standing perhaps 3 feet from her.

"Yes." Vivian lay down her carving blade and drew a kitchen knife from her cutlery drawer - the same sort she'd used to summon Balthazar from Hell. She reopened the incision she'd made on her forefinger earlier – tiny wound only now just beginning to heal – and coaxed several drops of her blood into the bowl. Vivian glanced at the Demon, meeting his eyes briefly before he offered her his hand. She took it in her own, slicing his index finger just enough to draw several drops of his own blood – dismissing the irony of injuring him now, if only slightly. The blood she sacrificed was for a ward – to paint on her doorframe so that none who wish her or Balthazar harm may enter.

Vivian paused for a moment after letting his blood fall into the bowl, still clasping his fingers in her own; his hands were surprisingly soft, considering the practical eternity he'd spent in Hell... and for the torture he'd endured, she pitied him. Quickly she brought his fingers to her lips, kissing the tips of them lightly. The small cut she'd inflicted had already healed – he was a Demon after all, she reminded herself. No sooner had the woman done this than Balthazar closed the gap between them, taking her head in his hands. She became instantly aware of his bare chest pressing against her own as he kissed her, and of the warmth radiating from him, through her shirt, bringing the thin cotton up against her skin…

"We should set up the barriers…" Vivian began breathlessly, feeling his mouth on her neck.

"It can wait," he replied in a silky tone reserved only for sex and the torment of John Constantine. Fluidly, the Demon clasped her shoulders and pushed the woman against the cabinets – firm without being violent.

"You're free." Vivian said it simply, softly, both knowing exactly what she meant by it. Balthazar scoffed, not surrendering an inch between them,

"Hmm, yes…" he purred, tone never changing. He pressed harder against her, face buried in her hair as he pushed her sweat pants down her thighs, garment falling in a pool of fabric at her feet.

"You don't have to," the Necromancer protested weakly- he could smell her lust, and any dissent on her part was purely foreplay.

"Oh, I assure you," Balthazar began, lips brushing her ear as he breathed the words to her, "I want to." The Demon pulled back, only enough so that he could touch his face to hers – he was several inches taller than her, and their difference in height now hinted at his dominance. Fiercely, Balthazar pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside with the rest of her clothing, until she stood naked before him. Vivian shuddered with rapture, watching the Demon's cunning grin twist into a snarl, his eyes growing very, very black. He forced her to the floor, legs tangled in the discarded clothing littering the kitchen.

†††

September, it seemed, would offer no relief from the stifling LA heat. The air was thick with late-afternoon sunlight, daylight and moisture forcing the stinging, smoggy haze of Los Angeles down so that people had no choice but to breathe it. Alone, a Hispanic woman paced across a cracked sidewalk, passing faded buildings laced up and down with decrepit fire-escapes. She walked unhindered by the muggy, mid-September warmth, though her dress clung to her body - revealing her figure, petite and once beautiful, now blemished by a life of child-bearing. Bags of pale skin hung under her dull, lifeless brown eyes, skin botched and unhealthy. The shoes she wore were old and weary-looking, with soles rubbed thin and color faded to blue-grey from years of unrelenting use. Still, she padded quickly over the uneven concrete, only coming to rest once she stood before her Church. The Cathedral stood proud amidst the relative ruin of her East Los Angeles neighbourhood, a construct of flawless gilded stone against a backdrop of yellowed tenements.

Inside, the air was hotter and more suffocating still.

"Mrs. Ordaz?" the Priest mentioned, rising from the first row pew. The building was completely empty save for the Father and herself.

"Father Francis," her voice was thick with a Spanish accent, but her English was almost flawless besides, "my girl, my Anita, she… she sleeps, she won't get out of bed, and when she does she speaks so foul to her Papa and I – she… she speaks, sometimes in… nonsense, her brothers and I don't understand what she's saying… She has never done this Father, and I'm afraid that if I send her to a hospital, they'll say she's crazy…" The woman drew a feeble breath, "She's not crazy, Father… I think she, she's _fantasmas_… she's possessed---" Father Francis rested his hands on the woman's shoulders, silencing her;

"It's a good thing that you came to this Church for aid – but I'm afraid there's very little I can do to help you – I _don't_ want you to think that I don't believe you, Mrs. Ordaz;" he added carefully, "Satan's presence among us is _very_ real. I simply don't have any experience dealing with this sort of thing…" his voice was unwavering, save for pity and empathy, "But, I do know of someone who may be able to help you. Do you happen to have a slip of paper and a pen?" The woman nodded, rummaging through her purse with shaking hands to produce, after some time, a blunted pencil and the receipt from a Laundromat. Father Francis managed to write a name and number in neat cursive on the back of the delicate paper,

"His name is John Constantine. If the Occult has anything to do with what's happening to your daughter, this man will be able to set it right."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 3

Vivian sighed. She stood in her bathroom, facing the mirror hanging above her sink. The woman held her long, ebony hair in one hand, pulled away from her face to reveal her neck, and the mark that was starting to appear on it. It was really no more than a blemish – faded grey lines without shape; but that would change.

"It's starting." The Necromancer spoke with some gravity, waiting for her lover to come. He did, as soon as he'd heard her – walking from her bedroom across the hall to stand in the bathroom doorway, where he could see her – and what would soon become the symbol for his name, on her flesh.

"The pain will be terrible." He answered simply, not yet nearing her. She didn't speak. The grey streaks tainting her neck would darken within the day, deepening to a sharp black – and she would change with her skin. Truly, a human could never become a Demon, or gain the powers of one; but as Balthazar had taken her as his mate, she would gain his immortality. No longer would she have to eat or sleep, after today, nor bear the tortures of time; but her weaknesses would still be mortal ones. Sickness and injury could kill her as easily as they would a human – and, as far as she knew, she would still be able to raise the Dead. Only Satan himself could grant her more than these.

"I know what will happen to me." Her voice was unwavering, but soft with fear. The pain she would endure as the mark darkened was said to be excruciating – infamous, and unrivalled by any mortal torture. It was called the _Acerbus Fabula_ – the torture romance that served as God's final punishment for the ultimate original sin; for those who fornicated with Demons on earth shall bear the pain of Hell, and if they endure it, they too shall be damned. "How long do I have?"

"A few hours-" A sharp knock on the apartment door interrupted him, earning a fearful silence.

"I painted lamb's blood on the doorframe-" Vivian interjected hurriedly, switching her glance from Balthazar to her hallway.

"Vivian; I called last night to have my suits delivered from the hotel where I was staying." He said it so simply it took the Necromancer a moment to quieten. A diminutive silence passed between them, ended by a short laugh with the magnitude of a harsh whisper.

"A bell-boy?" The woman half-grinned with the sort of adrenaline-fed elation that comes from quickly allayed fear, "well," she spoke in a half-sigh, "I think, then, that I should answer the door. At least I'm dressed." Her statement earned a scoff from her lover, Vivian quickly slipping passed him and to the apartment entrance. She unlocked the double-deadbolts holding her door to its bloodied frame, and opened it to reveal, with some relief, the hotel delivery boy. He was a kid really, a bottle-blonde jock teenager with a part-time job – struggling slightly with the heavy, black garment bag. She saw him smirk as soon as he saw it was a woman who opened the door to receive men's clothing, giving her the stereotypical teen-boy once-over.

"5 Armani suits for a…. Mr. James Brenner."

As quick as he'd come, Vivian tipped the boy and shut the door, handing the expensive suits over to the Demon. He stepped into her bedroom with the clothing, laying the garment bag down on her bed and unzipping it. She watched him from the hallway, dressing himself quickly without thinking to shut the door. He would leave as soon as he finished, she thought, to get that which he himself could not provide.

"Where are you going?" She asked tentatively, fearful of the pain she would soon endure, and beyond that, of the possibility of enduring it alone.

"To Midnite's." The Demon's answer was met with brief eye-contact, before the man returned to buttoning his shirt. "I need a mortal Christian to earn the _Venia ex Deus_." He knew she knew this, even as he said it.

"The man won't help us, Balthazar – he can't." She spoke despairingly, knowing what horror would befall her if Midnite refused them. The _Venia ex Deus_ was a ritual of mercy – a spell to earn clemency and pardon from the wrath of God; it was the only way to lessen the pain of the _Acerbus Fabula_. The incantation would not be perfect – but it would be morphine. And as mercy is a quality over which God holds domain, those in his favour are the only souls capable of performing the _Venia ex Deus_. In the spirit of Dante Alighieri, this Divine Punishment fits its crime; for between God and the Devil, only God knows of love – and only by seeking aid from that which he has forsaken may a Demon spare his beloved the horror of the _Acerbus Fabula_.

"He may."

Balthazar walked out from the bedroom and into the narrow hallway where Vivian stood.

"Come back soon." She said to him, the Demon bringing his fingers to the mark of his name on her neck. Vivian sighed. The Necromancer turned her gaze to follow him as he walked toward the door,

"Aren't you going to Apparate?" He shook his head,

"It would attract too much attention. I'll take a cab." Balthazar unlocked the door and opened it, but spoke to her again before he passed into the sickly grey hall on the other side, "The pain won't start until after I return – I promise you that."

With a hurried stride, the Demon Balthazar stepped into earthly sunlight for the first time centuries – in Hell. He reminded himself often that nothing here had changed – save that Constantine had defeated Mammon, and the Angel Gabriel fell from grace for her treachery; nothing indeed. He hailed a passing taxi. Overhead, the Demon heard a hiss of wind, like feathers on bone.

"14th and Caraway," he instructed the driver quickly, attempting nonchalance in a way he'd mastered over the course of his existence.

"What business does a guy like you have down in that part of town?" the cabby inquired with both genuine curiosity and suspicion as he pulled into traffic. He was a large man, heavy with muscle and boasted a deep LA accent.

"I have a meeting with a client of mine," Balthazar lied flawlessly.

"What are you, a lawyer or something?" The fare meter uttered an obnoxious beep.

"Finance law." The Demon glanced out the window and up at the smog-ridden, if utterly cloudless sky. He didn't doubt the 'wind' he'd heard a moment ago was indeed the sound made from the wings of Angels, coming for him.

"'This client of yours – he steal money or something?" The man smirked into the rear-view mirror,

"My client is innocent." Balthazar said this in such a way that it erased all doubt in the driver's mind that his passenger was, indeed, the most slippery sort of finance lawyer LA had to boast.

Balthazar's attention flicked from his lie to the rustling of feathers above the taxi. Something delicate brushed the roof, and he could smell the light, powdery dust of Angel wings in the air.

"We're being followed." He spoke gravely, making brief eye-contact with the driver through the mirror once again.

"I could try to lose 'em," the cabby started, but his client stopped him before he could dip and weave through nearby side-roads, an exercise in futility when running from an enemy with wings.

"No. Pull over here." The taxi driver obeyed, not bothering to put his car out of gear.

"The Figueroa," He stated to the Demon, eyeing his client over the back seat. The fare meter had climbed to 16-something; Balthazar handed him a 20.

"Don't bother with change," the Demon mentioned as he stepped hurriedly from the car. It wasn't dark yet, but certainly late afternoon – 5 o'clock easily, with the early-evening sunlight casting long, amber shadows over the narrow, barren road. The street should be packed with cars; Balthazar thought briefly, it was rush-hour after all. Or was it Sunday?

"Balthazar, kin of Lucifer," a voice clicked from out the sunlight, as soon as the taxi disappeared. A blonde figure, dressed in white was the speaker, standing in the center of the sun-drenched road. Balthazar stood still in the shade.

"Angel, kin of Michael." He'd spoken those words before, and he remembered them well. What was said now was archaic tradition – the recognition of sides preceding a battle.

"I am the Angel Icharus," the divinity answered, stepping into full view of the Demon. He, if it was a _he_ at all, was tall and lithe, above all else. His arms and legs were long and lanky, like a gazelle dressed in white.

"And I," came a second voice, deeper and more masculine than the first, "am the Angel Aziel." The second was shorter than Icharus, with longer, darker hair and deep green eyes. The pair needn't say more than they had – Balthazar already deduced their purpose. He remained still for a moment longer, before choosing either fight or flight. They were here for his soul, here to drag him down to Hell, and, perhaps, to an eternity of torment. But if they succeeded, Vivian would die along with him – and her soul would too know the torment of the flames of Dis.

With a deep breath, Balthazar leapt into the sunlight. Massive wings, the size of an Angel's but made from blackened leather and sharp, ebony bone spread from his shoulder blades – through his suit without tearing the fabric. Airborne for the first time in eons, Balthazar willed his eyes to blacken, nails and teeth growing into fangs and talons as he readied himself for war. Before the Angels could strike him, the Demon of Hell brought his wrath upon them. The first he struck was Icharus. With no wings yet summoned to shield his back, Balthazar grazed his talons over the Angel's pale flesh, drawing deep lines of blood far pinker and brighter than that of a mortal. They would heal quickly, however – in seconds, were he not to strike again.

Without warning, Aziel, with wings awakened soared over his Demon prey, wielding a silver sword – the only weapon permitted Angels of Heaven. He brought the weapon down with skill, striking Balthazar through the shoulder. It missed his wing and therefore wasn't fatal, but the sanctified blade burned in the Demon's flesh, and he removed it as quickly as he could. Icharus, the better fighter of the two tore at Balthazar's wings, clutching them from behind to drag him from the sky. The Demon strove to murder Aziel, and drove his talons through the Angel's throat, spilling his blood over them all.

The Angel's body fell from the sky and hit the concrete feet below them with the audible crack of breaking bone. Icharus screamed for his fallen comrade, attacking Aziel's murderer with all the more fervour. Before Icharus could harm him, Balthazar dove to the ground, raising the dead Angel's sword from the asphalt. The weapon alone burned in his hands, but the Demon didn't intend to hold it long. Balthazar flew up above the blonde Angel, baiting him to fly higher to fight. Once they'd come 20 feet up from the ground, Balthazar brought the weapon down upon the Angel, and cut his wing from his body. Icharus fell as his comrade had, though he didn't die.

Returning to earth, the Demon Balthazar stood, Aziel's sword in hand, over the beaten body of the Angel Icharus in cold-blooded victory. His legs were broken and twisted painfully by their impact with the concrete road – his right femur severed and shoved through the muscle and skin of his leg so that the bone itself was visible. Blood poured from the open wound where his right wing had once been, mixing with the blood of Aziel, whose corpse lie only feet away. Their bodies, within 15 minutes, would turn to ash, and be swept away, in time, by either wind or rain. With a final, fatal strike, the Demon Balthazar drove Aziel's sword through the heart of Icharus, pinning his writhing corpse to the concrete.

The Demon didn't think of what he'd done. His shoulder singed with pain where Aziel had speared him with his sword, but the wound itself was almost completely healed. The lashes on his back, however, had reopened in the fighting, and the constant dull ache they provided was almost worse than the searing pain of holy silver against his flesh. Balthazar didn't bother to wipe the blood from his hands before he Apparated, disappearing from where he stood and appearing back in Vivian's apartment, in a cloud of searing smoke.

"What-" The woman began quietly, but the Demon silenced her with an embrace.

"I was attacked," He spoke softly, holding her head against his shoulder. The blood from his hands and jacket stained her shirt, bright red liquid appearing far better against her faded-grey fabric than it had staining his charcoal suit, "by two angels, on the Figueroa." The woman shook her head in dissent, pulling away from him. She brought her hand to the red stains on her shirt and neck, where he'd touched her.

"You killed them, didn't you?" She said it softly, her voice bearing the edge of fear.

"Yes." He allowed for a moment of silence, before the Demon spoke again, "Does my wickedness frighten you, Necromancer?"

"I'm afraid _for_ you..." She touched her hand to his chest, immediately pulling it away when she felt the fabric frayed and torn under her fingertips.

"It's almost healed," Balthazar spoke before she could inquire, "can't say as though I think the suit can be saved, however…"

"Did the Angels do this to you?" He smirked wryly,

"Yes." Vivian closed her eyes, lowering her head from him,

"You could've been killed…" The Demon rested his hand on the back of her neck,

"Them or me." The woman sighed deeply, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her fingers tucked away into her sleeves.

"This is going to be war." She spoke softly, but the power of her words made it seem as though she screamed them.

†††

"We have a job," John Constantine shouted in Chas Kramer's general direction, clicking his cell phone shut. The Exorcist's flat was drowned in light, casting green and amber sunspots on the yellowed linoleum floor. Kramer rose eagerly from the man's faded sofa. He'd spent the nights following their fight with Mammon sleeping in Constantine's apartment – John was the one who paid his hospital bills that night, and the only one who came to see him when he was there. His parents, he realized more clearly than ever before, didn't care one way or the other whether or not he was alive, and because of it, he had no desire to return home. He was 18 after all, and besides, the boy could get more jobs this way – and more jobs meant more money, which would be important now that he was on his own.

"I'll get the car, John."

The day had passed surprisingly slowly; save for a routine exorcism that morning of a possessed suburban housewife, Constantine hadn't received any further calls.

"The apartment complex we're headed to is on the east side," John began, following his protégé down the flight of stairs leading from his flat to the street, "1914 Spear Street."

"Does this look like the job's going to be really straightforward, John?" the Exorcist's apprentice dared to ask as his mentor as he packed the man's work bag into the taxi's trunk. The heavy, well-worn duffel bag held the demonologist's myriad of tools – everything from religious reference books to vials of holy water and the infamous dragon's breath.

"It looks that way, Chas." The boy got into the front seat, speaking again once he'd started to drive,

"Well, do you think I could help out this time, John?" The Exorcist uttered an acerbic laugh,

"You spent 60 hours in a coma, Chas. If you hit your head any harder, you'd still be laying on that hospital bed with a feeding tube taped to your mouth." The kid scoffed,

"I'm _driving_, John. The doctors said I was fine-"

"You were almost killed by the son of the Devil." Constantine spoke gravely, "You're waiting in the car." The young man didn't give up as easily as he would have a week ago,

"But, that's just it, John. I was _almost_ killed by Mammon. But I _wasn't_ – it can't possibly get any more dangerous than that, it just can't."

The Exorcist didn't speak for the rest of their drive, until Chas Kramer pulled in front of a large apartment building. The edifice was stone, and looked as if it had once been attractive, but its exterior had been dirtied with time and the structure now succeeded only in appearing imposing. Ramshackle charcoal fire-escapes that hardly looked as if they would function if needed laced up the grey sandstone walls, connecting sets of dust-covered windows.

"You can come in," Constantine spoke suddenly, "but you aren't going to do anything. You aren't even going to _say_ anything – got it?" Chas sat in silent shock for a fair moment,

"-I, I got it John." He began weakly, as if afraid that by showing excitement he would somehow change Constantine's mind, "I'm only there to watch." The Exorcist offered a small, bemused nod as he stepped from the vehicle,

"Good."

†††

"Balthazar-" Vivian's voice cracked with pain as she spoke, her words floating from out the kitchen where she stood. The Demon came quickly, finding her clutching the mark of his name on her neck, her eyes dark with fear.

"So it's starting then." Balthazar spoke calmly, knowing the pain wasn't terrible for her – not yet. "Here," he mentioned, taking her free hand in his, "lie down. It will get worse in a moment." Vivian Charbonneau did as he said, following her lover into her bedroom. The Necromancer hardly felt the anguish through her terror, but that would change, until the sensation became so intense it consumed her. For a moment they waited in bated tension – for the suffering to worsen until she lay, writhing on the mattress in screaming, brutal agony. This could kill her - they both knew it, but neither spoke; there was no need to, and no need to mount her terror further.

"I should probably tape your mouth shut, so you can't scream," the Demon thought aloud, though he said it doubtfully. Vivian shot him a cold glance though the minor agony she was in;

"Spare me the discomfiture," her voice was soft and heavy with indignation. Balthazar uttered a quiet scoff,

"And have the police show up _here_? Lucifer knows what they'd think if they found that pentagram carved into your floor."

"I doubt anyone in _this_ building would care one way or the other if-" She stopped abruptly, assailed by another wave of anguish, much worse than the first. It came in rapid stages, beginning at the mark on her neck and spreading to every inch of her body. The pain was searing, hot and unclean – poison in an infected sore. It manifested deep inside her muscles and joints, festering there for several moments. Her flesh _hurt_; the pressure of her body alone pushing into the bed-sheets stung and seared, but hardly more so than the sensation present in the rest of her body.

Gently, Balthazar lifted her body from the mattress, bringing his lips to the mark on her neck. Her skin was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat, and her body seemed to wilt from the suffering, shrinking lifelessly into itself as he held her, for a moment. His kiss alone was excruciating, but under the agony was a sort of subtle pleasure, and she focused on that above the pain.

"You'll survive this…" Balthazar cooed tenderly, his breath hot against her neck, "I promise you, you will survive this."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4

The pair walked up several flights of soiled linoleum stairs in utter silence, Chas carrying Constantine's black bag over his shoulder all the while. The apartment in question was on the fifth floor, accessed by a considerable walk down a dimly-lit, windowless grey hallway. When they reached the door, the Exorcist had but to knock once for it to open – no words were required to bid him entrance. The woman behind it was Hispanic and frail, easily in her 40's, her face creased with lines that seemed to be filled with dust. Strands of long, naturally curling black hair fell haphazardly about her face from a bun that, perhaps that morning, succeeded in holding it back.

"This way." She led them through a small living room and down a hallway, stopping once she reached the second door on the left. "Please help her…" Constantine scoffed, almost rudely,

"Sure."

The Exorcist opened the door, revealing the room of an average preteen girl; save that she was tied, writhing, to the bed. Chas Kramer followed, shutting the door behind his mentor. Silently, John Constantine stepped in front of the bedroom's window, removing a ring of metal charms from his pocket. Kramer knew what they were, of course – they were effigies of the nine Saints that conquered the nine Demons which reign over the circles of Hell – Lucifer's nine most trusted officials, and the members of his High Council in Hell. Every Demon capable of moral possession is under the command of one of the nine; and only by assailing the master may the Demon be purged. John flicked through the charms one by one, until he reached a symbol that succeeded in evoking a reaction from the Demon in the girl – today, a guttural snarl, and a string of Hellspeak and Latin obscenities.

"Don't like St. John the Apostle, eh?" The Exorcist muttered to himself, though loud enough for Chas to hear, "Puppet of Asmodeus." The Demon growled horribly at the mention of his master's name, bearing the girl's teeth at his would-be exorcist. With a self-satisfied scoff, Constantine stepped up onto the bed, kneeling over the girl's body with the Demon inside. In one hand Constantine brandished his well-worn and much-used Roman Ritual; in the other, the silver and steel effigy of St. John.

_"I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your Creator, by Him who has the power to consign you to hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God, who seeks refuge in the fold of the Church."_ Constantine began, his voice clear and harsh at once, _"For it is the power of Christ that compels you, who brought you low by His cross. Tremble before that mighty arm that broke asunder the dark prison walls and led souls forth to light. May the trembling that afflicts this human frame, the fear that afflicts this image of God, descend on you."_ The Demon hissed in serpentine protest to the man's words, contorting within the binds of the restraints on the girl's hands and feet.

_"Papa Satan, Papa Satan_," the Demon snarled, twisting the girl's face into a sneer, _"Condemnare, Exorcist, condemnare dicere infernos per Satanas_," the beast in the girl continued once it was through with insults, "Your _Dirus ex Vexare_ is in the cellar, Exorcist; _valde Daemon-Dominus Asmodei_ wishes him well." The English was a sharp contrast to the beast's Latin and Hellspeak; and it succeeded in capturing John's attention – that, and what the Demon had revealed. John said nothing in response though he felt the wrath to, lest he taint the exorcism and have to start over;

_"Make no resistance nor delay in departing from this child, for it has pleased Christ to dwell in her. It is God Himself who commands you; the majestic Christ who commands you. God the Father commands you; God the Son commands you;_" No longer did the Demon speak, as it was instead fighting with all its power to maintain ascendancy over the girl's body – fighting and failing, against the words of the Exorcist John Constantine. "_God the Holy Spirit commands you. The faith of the Holy Apostle John and of all the Saints commands you. The blood of the martyrs commands you-"_ John stopped, only once he felt the resistance of the writhing creature under him cease, its essence forced from the body it possessed in a final show of smoke and sulphur.

John Constantine stepped off of the bed as soon as the girl began to regain consciousness, opening the door and waiting for the mother to console her daughter and eventually pay him; the latter of which was far more important. Chas said nothing, but opted to wait outside the bedroom. He'd heard what the Demon said to John – not the insults, as they were meaningless – but rather, what he'd said about John's_ Dirus ex Vexare_. It was Latin for _fear of anguish_, but it meant much more than that. A _Dirus ex Vexare_ is a Demon who torments a mortal capable of seeing half-breeds; the Hell-creature will seek out its victim after they are damned, and never give them peace until death. The Demon sent to torture a mortal's living soul is subordinate kin to the Demon-Lord which rules over the circle of Hell that mortal is damned into; because Constantine killed himself, he had once been destined for the _Wood of Suicides_, in the Seventh Circle of Hell. The Seventh Circle of Hell, Chas knew quite fundamentally, was ruled over by the Demon Asmodeus-Asmodei, hence what the Demon in the girl had said.

Still, the teen instantly considered the creature could have been lying. Demons of Hell are fraudulent by nature, and in the heat of an Exorcism, one would say anything to distract the practitioner from deporting their soul. Of course, few things rattled John Constantine, and the kid had known his mentor long enough to see that his had.

The Exorcist left the flat shortly after collecting his fee, not speaking so much as a word to his apprentice. Chas was still carrying the man's things in the massive duffel bag, jogging to keep up with his mentor's stride.

"It's Balthazar," Constantine said finally, his voice laced with malice. Chas had heard John mention that name before in passing, and never too fondly – but the boy didn't consider that the Demon was anything more to the Exorcist than a nuisance.

"Are you sure John? I mean-" Constantine cut him off,

"I'm sure." His reply was resolute. Quickly, the pair reached the bottom of the staircase; John searching for a way down into the apartment's parking level.

"But how was he resurrected, though?" John paused for a moment, meeting the kid's eye,

"I don't know, Chas. I don't care. I'm going to deport him like Midnite wanted, and none of this will matter." Constantine found the door leading to the building's second stairwell, this one descending only downwards.

The door at the end of the stairs opened to a sterile hallway with several doors. It was better lit than the corridors in the main part of the apartment building, but appeared colourless and industrial by comparison. Perhaps, Constantine thought, the hallways upstairs would have looked the same, had the lighting been brighter.

"Do you know where he is, John?" Chas questioned cautiously. The Exorcist paused a moment, striding down the sterile corridor slowly, and with deliberate scrutiny. The teen became aware that the man's eyes were completely closed, his muscles tense with lingering anger and concentration.

"He's in this one." John Constantine stopped in front of one of the six identical paste-coloured doors, the second from the end of the hall. His apprentice cast the man a wary glance,

"How could you possibly tell that, John?" The Exorcist smirked resentfully,

"You heard the Demon, Chas," he continued ruefully, "Balthazar is my _Dirus ex Vexare_ – and he has been for long enough that I can feel where he is." Chas blinked,

"That's weird, John." Constantine strode up to the door, his hand hovering over the brass knob.

"Yeah."

Without warning, the Exorcist stepped back half a stride and kicked in the door, double-deadbolts tearing through the decaying doorframe with little resistance. The cut-price composite wood swung fast from its hinges, bouncing off the hallway wall once before coming to rest. Immediately, the Exorcist motioned to enter the small, subterranean apartment, pausing in the hallway at the sight of the Demon Balthazar. The Demon immerged quickly from the adjoining bedroom wearing a clean suit, his hair neatly slicked back in its usual perfection – but his expression was one of rare disquietude. Constantine hardly noticed;

"Back so soon, _Balthazar_?" John's voice was acrid, filled with a raw hatred Chas hadn't witnessed from his mentor before. The Demon turned his gaze to the Exorcist, meeting his eyes without hesitance or fear,

"I need your help." Constantine uttered a caustic laugh,

"Sure," the man took a step back from the door, pushing his sleeves up just below his elbows, "I'll help you." Without pause, John motioned to enter the apartment torrid with violence – stopping, dead, at the doorframe. Held back by some unseen force, the Exorcist could step no further than the red stains of lamb's blood painted on wood. It was not a violent sensation, but a complete one – the impression of a dozen hands on his body and clothes, pulling him away from the door. Immediately, John's gaze switched to the doorframe, and back to the Demon once he'd found evidence of the magic that held him still.

"You warded the apartment…!" John hissed through clenched teeth with pointed bitterness, stepping away from the door once it became clear he wouldn't be able to enter. Balthazar didn't elaborate,

"Yes." He paused a moment, glancing over his shoulder towards the bedroom, "My _wife_ is going through the _Acerbus Fabula_-" Constantine sneered, giving the Demon a cursory once-over in minor disgust,

"What have you done now-" The Demon didn't let him finish,

"It doesn't matter," he spoke with rare, raw sincerity, "she could die if you don't help her." John shrugged with mock-nonchalance, relishing in vengeance,

"Life isn't _fair_, is it? I'm surprised you'd even ask me to do you any favours after the _Hell_ you worked so hard to put me through." He paused for a moment, adopting a slightly less ruthless tone, "Not to mention with that barrier, I wouldn't be able to get through the front door-"

"I'll do it." The words were Chas'. The boy spoke far more loudly than he intended, and with ostensible-confidence, pausing long enough to gain the attention of the pair but continued before either could interject; "The cure for the _Acerbus Fabula_ is the _Venia ex Deus_, right? That's easy enough to do – it's just praying, right?" He spoke quickly, too quickly, the rapidity of his words alone betraying his poorly-camouflaged terror, "I read about it a while ago, it doesn't matter that I'm not a real Exorcist, you… you just have to be a good Christian."

"Chas," Constantine began, his voice harsh once again with both anger and concern, "Do you have any idea what the Hell you're doing?!" The boy ignored the Exorcist for a moment, knowing that if he so much as made eye-contact with his mentor, he would be far too mortified to speak.

"It's a simple lamb's blood barrier, right?" He addressed the question to Balthazar, somehow less terrified now, and therefore more articulate.

"Yes." The Demon's tone was a mix of novel bemusement and lingering apprehension for his wife.

"Then, theoretically, as long as I'm not trying to hurt you, or kill you or whatever, I should be able to get in." With a long, deep breath, Chas took a step towards the door – pausing briefly as Constantine spoke,

"If anything happens to him..." the Exorcist's words were deathly severe, and, to the boy's relief, not directed at him.

"I mean no harm to the boy," Balthazar answered without hesitation, matching the Exorcist's gravity, "this I swear to you." Quickly, John pulled a small vial of Holy Water from his trench coat pocket – tossing the small, glimmering liquid in crystal to the boy. Chas caught it with some astonishment.

Without further hesitation, Chas stepped through the warded doorframe, meeting Constantine's eyes for a fleeting moment before Balthazar shut the door behind them. All propriety left the Demon's voice as he addressed the boy alone,

"She's in the bedroom."

Chas opened the bedroom door tentatively. The room behind it was dimly lit, but light enough for him to make out the form of a petite woman lying motionless on the bed. She lay on her side, her long, black hair cascading over her back and shoulders in a blanket of silk-like ebony. The boy gripped Constantine's vial of Holy Water tightly in the palm of his hand as he stepped deeper into the room, vaguely aware of the Demon standing next to the entrance, several feet behind him. Slowly, the teen strode over to the bed, glancing back at Balthazar for half a moment before touching his hand to the woman's shoulder – she fell lifelessly onto her back, eyes closed. _It's the woman from the drug store_ Chas thought briefly, looking over her.

"She passed out before your master arrived." Balthazar's voice cut suddenly from out the darkness of the room. "But she's still in incredible pain. You _must_ save her-" the last part of that line was spoken quicker, less guarded than what he's said before. Vivian appeared to be simply sleeping, Kramer supposed, but there was a level of malcontent even in her unconsciousness – and a subdued agony.

"You may want to leave the room when I do this -" Chas began, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his hands were cold with sweat and nerves. He didn't look back as he heard the bedroom door creak open and shut.

Alone the boy got up onto the mattress, kneeling over the woman's body. The _Venia ex Deus_ wasn't difficult, but it required a pure soul to complete – he wondered if anyone who agreed to do this could ever be pure.

"_Child of God_," he began, the words spoken with hidden strength and courage, "_I bless thee in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost_…"

Balthazar stood for a moment in the apartment hallway, behind the front door. He sighed deeply with minor dread before stepping through the blood wards and out into the subterranean corridor - no sooner had the Demon exited the seeming safety of Vivian's apartment than was he assailed most violently by John Constantine. Fiercely, the Exorcist clutched the Demon's suit in his fists, slamming him against the hallway wall,

"What the fuck are you trying to pull??" Constantine hissed with violent rage, his teeth very near to Balthazar's face. The Demon sneered, narrowing his eyes to the Exorcist,

"_I haven't done anything_." John scoffed viciously, pressing his fists deeper into Balthazar's suit,

"Taking a mortal woman as your mate your first day back from Hell is _nothing_? Do you have any idea what the fucking consequences are? Does _she_??" The wounds on the demon's back ached as Constantine pressed them hard against the hallway wall,

"The woman in that apartment is Vivian Charbonneau," Balthazar uttered softly, his voice weak with the pressure the Exorcist was putting on his lungs. John silenced, releasing the Demon slightly, "And I've known her for a very long time."

"Jesus Balthazar." Constantine paused a moment, abandoning his rage, if only temporarily. The Necromancer Vivian Charbonneau was well-known in the circles John traveled in, and her connection to this explained how Balthazar got back from Hell.

John thought of leaving, for a second – of letting Chas finish and returning to his condo – but in the interest of productive inquisition, he chose instead to conference with his enemy.

"I went to Midnite's last night;" he began carefully, his tone not entirely civil, "The place was crowded with about 50 angels, including our buddy Michael. When I talked to Midnite, he told me some First Circle Demon was brought over to the mortal plane – he wanted me to find him and deport him. Then today, I get a call for an exorcism upstairs and the Demon responsible for the possession told me you were here." Balthazar stood still for a second, gazing into his enemy's eyes once again,

"When Vivian began the _Acerbus Fabula_, I left to find someone to perform the _Venia ex Deus_ – I was attacked by two angels, out in the open on the Figueroa." His voice was soft, but deliberate and unafraid. Constantine lifted an eyebrow,

"What did you do?"

"I killed them." John let go of the Demon's suit, stepping back from Balthazar in minor surrender,

"I can't be here." John's words were selfish and unconcerned; "they'll come to get you, if they aren't on their way already; if they find out I helped you, Chas and I are dead too – no one's killed an Angel since the war in Heaven-" Without pause, Balthazar reached out and clutched John's shoulders in his hands, scrunching the fabric of the Exorcist's suit into his fists,

"_Listen to me,"_ the demon hissed, his eyes never leaving Constantine's, "I know _that_ far better than you do, but that's hardly the matter at hand – it's not important-! Not as critical as what's happened before, don't you see? 50 Angels, the Archangel Michael on the mortal plane – all supposedly after me? _Does that make any sense to you at all_?" He paused, "It's hardly likely that even one Angel would descend from Heaven to deport a Demon set free by a Necromancer – I'm not a threat to them John, and you know it." The Exorcist eyed him warily, chewing over what he'd said,

"Do you know what they want you for then?" Balthazar shook his head,

"As I've said before John, I haven't _done anything_."

"And you're sure they aren't after the girl?" Constantine spoke knowingly, from rather recent experience.

"She's just a Necromancer, John. She's nothing to them – in no way worth all this effort." Balthazar paused cautiously, thinking for a half-moment before he spoke, "I think there's something more to this, Johnny-boy."

"What?" The Exorcist's voice was oddly placid, despite his nemesis' choice of diction.

"A conspiracy, possibly. Someone trying to frame me for the offences of another…" Constantine shook his head in doubt and disapproval,

"They're Angels, Balthazar – they'd have nothing to gain by doing that." It was the Demon's turn to dissent, his voice dripping with condescension and sarcasm;

"That must be it, because Angels are _never_ deceitful…"

"If anyone's plotting against you, it'd be your buddy Lucifer." Constantine spoke rather nastily, escaping out from under Balthazar's grasp.

"Lucifer was an Angel once." The Demon countered, unable to resist poking holes in the Exorcist's logic. John sneered,

"You know what I meant."

"If Lucifer wanted me in Hell that desperately, I would already be in Hell." Balthazar stated this simply, his voice laced subtly with something like regret, or resignation. Constantine looked at the Demon, regarding his words thoughtfully –

"But then who would-" John stopped abruptly when the door to Vivian Charbonneau's apartment opened and Chas Kramer stepped out into the hall, shutting it behind him.

"I think she'll be alright now." His voice was soft, but confident. "She's awake." Constantine glanced Balthazar up and down quickly, before coming to rest on his eyes – they flickered like fire. John turned his head away before he spoke,

"Go back inside to your wife before I change my mind and deport your sorry ass straight to Hell." The Demon half-scoffed and almost answered, but stopped short of speaking. Instead, he turned for the apartment door, resting his hand gently on the knob,

"Thank you." He said this to Chas, with an air of genuineness that made Constantine lift his head in amusement,

"Sure." John flicked his gaze to his apprentice, "Come on. We're finished here."

Without waiting, Exorcist John Constantine strode down the tenement hallway, Chas Kramer half-jogging to keep up with his pace.

"Thanks for letting me use this," Chas pulled the vial of Holy Water John gave him out of his jacket pocket and offered it to his boss, "Sorry I had to use all of it." Constantine glanced down at the kid, half-smiling.

"Keep it," he answered nonchalantly, still grinning as he looked ahead, "you can fill it when we get home. You'll probably need it again sometime."

†††

Balthazar closed the door to Vivian's small, subterranean apartment quickly and quietly, swiftly stepping into her bedroom. She was still lying down, her body facing the entrance; as he stood in the doorway, he could see her eyes gazing at him placidly through the darkness. The Necromancer's bedroom was small and black as pitch. The room had no windows, and the only light was the glow of the lamps in the hallway shining in through the open door. Standing on the doorstep had the feel of looking down a well, or into a tomb. Silently, the Demon of Hell approached her bed and sat by Vivian's side, resting his hand on the base of her neck, under her blanket of hair. Her skin was soft, but still sticky with the remnants of a cold sweat – he felt her wince under his caress.

"The boy did well." Her voice was weak, but Balthazar felt it resonate against his fingers, magnified by the absolute stillness of the room. Her lover glanced down at her, almost sighing,

"Are you still in pain?"

"Yes. It's much better now." She drew in a sharp breath, closing her eyes to minor agony as the air filled her lungs, stinging her from the inside. By morning, she thought, she would no longer have to breathe.

"Don't speak." Balthazar ran his forefinger over his name, darkened into the lady's porcelain skin – it was nearly black now, and her suffering was almost over. How much I would sacrifice… he thought to himself, gazing absently over her countenance, drinking in the contours of skin and flesh that formed her features. Her muscles were tense with pain, and her eyes dark with anguish… Still, she looked different this way – softer, serene.

"What are you thinking of?" the Necromancer Vivian Charbonneau asked, her voice hardly a whisper. The Demon Balthazar paused for a moment to remember before he answered, and before he spoke, she had fallen asleep.

"_Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende_"

* * *

Author's Note: the last line in this chapter is from Dante's _Inferno_. It translates (very roughly) to "love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize". If Balthazar had bothered to finish the quote, it would take on a different, less benevolent meaning... but that you can look up yourself.

As for my shameful lack of updates... I'm taking a bit of a break from writing this fic, admittedly, so that I can focus on my other one. That said, I have the plot for this story planned out in excruciating detail down to the last scene, and I have every intention of finishing it. I should update again before March.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 5

Morning light looked strange and out of place in Father Francis' cathedral. The church faced east, and the sun gleamed into the grand, imposing building with almost too much intensity - clean, white light shone through the gilded church's stained-glass windows, illuminating haphazard patches of brightness on the stone floor and on the statues of Angels overlooking the pulpit. The sun's radiance did not brighten the church. Rather, natural light highlighted every crack and flaw in the ancient sculptures and every imperfection in the floor; spiders scurried from their cobwebs and retreated to the rafters, scuttling over frescoes of Angels to find some dark corner spared by the dawn. The church was empty, save for the Father himself and one other, speaking softly with him off to the side of the dais, near one of the cathedral's elaborately carved confessionals.

"You disappoint me Father Francis," the stranger began, his calm derision breaking the silence of the morning like a mirror shattered on concrete. He was an elegant, East-Indian man, dressed in a Gucci business suit and Prada shoes; his dark hair was slicked back and pulled tight into a ponytail, and in his right ear was the small, wireless headset to a blackberry phone. The man wore a pair of sleek, dark sunglasses, indifferent to the sanctity of the church he was standing in; behind them, Father Francis didn't see his eyes smouldering like fire. Leaning nonchalantly with his back against the cathedral wall, the stranger had the air of the lord of a drug cartel, or an Arabian Prince.

"The Exorcist did not do as I thought he might." The priest justified carefully, touching his fingertips together in a steeple before his chest as he spoke.

"Clearly not. In fact, your ploy failed quite spectacularly." He paused, waiting for a reply from the Father – when there was none, the stranger raised an eyebrow in amusement, "Instead of deporting that demon I sent you after, Constantine helped its wife through the _Acerbus Fabula._" Father Francis clicked his tongue,

"My lord," the priest pacified gingerly, "if I had only known, I assure you, our dealings would have ended–" The businessman silenced him with a Cheshire grin,

"Oh, you aren't finished. I want the Demon Balthazar in Hell, and you will do it for me."

"I expect compensation," the Father countered firmly, a vain attempt to mirror the assuredness and authority his visitor boasted so effortlessly. The East-Indian scoffed, a snide grin showing small, white teeth,

"What do you want?" He spoke slowly, drawing out each word in lyrical mockery.

"The soul of the Angel Gabriel." Father Francis made his request delicately, as though the object of his desire was as fragile as blown glass and if he so much as spoke of it too carelessly, it would shatter in his hands. The businessman rolled his eyes,

"You know, it isn't an Angel _anymore_..."

The priest didn't notice his associate's repugnance. He had turned his eyes to his cathedral's gilded ceiling, his gaze dancing over the familiar frescoes of Seraphim looking down at him with faces painted eternally in soft benevolence,

"No, _she_ isn't."

A silence passed in the old church. The sun had shifted in the sky and the room's shadows with it, forcing the priest's guest to move to avoid its stark glare. Whether lost in licentious reverie or merely indifferent, Father Francis did not stir, but rather let the sun bathe his body in harsh, blue morning light. The voices of young people, talking amongst themselves on the sidewalk outside filtered faintly into the old building, and swirls of fine dust played in the pale sun-beams streaming through stained-glass windows. Standing comfortably in the shade of a statue of the Archangel Michael, the man in the Gucci suit dismissed the heavy stillness with a wave of his hand,

"It can be arranged." Behind his black sunglasses, the stranger closed his eyes, "Don't go after the demon directly. He will very likely kill you." Father Francis didn't lower his gaze from the decorated ceiling,

"What would you have me do?"

"Mm. Hunt down his wife." The East-Indian took his blackberry out of his suit-jacket pocket, absently glancing down at its screen as he spoke, "She's only a Necromancer. I trust it won't be too much for you to handle." Furrowing his brow at his phone's glowing display, the stranger returned it to his pocket and stepped away from the cathedral wall, "The failure of your latest little scheme was due entirely to your own ineptitude; I held up my end of the bargain, _priest_. Don't forget that." Without waiting for the vicar to answer, Father Francis' visitor turned from him, striding down toward the massive church doors. Outside, a black Jaguar with tinted windows purred softly as it idled; the man in the Gucci suit opened its rear door himself and climbed in, straightening his jacket as he sat. With a word to his driver, the car clicked in gear and sped away down the empty, sundrenched street.

†††

"Hey Constantine, 'you want eggs?" Chas Kramer asked, peeking his head around the cracked, white tile wall that separated the Exorcist's kitchen enclave from the rest of his apartment. It was a little after eight o'clock and the teenager had gotten up only minutes before; he woke to find Constantine already up, reading an old-looking leather bound book at the long, lacquered table that graced the largest room of John's apartment. Silently, Chas wondered if Constantine had slept at all that night.

"Sure," John answered, buttoning his shirt as he stepped from his bathroom, "As long as they aren't burnt." The Exorcist's hair was still wet from a shower and slightly dishevelled because of it; his dress-shirt clung to his chest, bunching and wrinkling with the lingering water droplets that had yet to evaporate from his skin.

Bleakly, Chas glanced at the contents of the sauté pan resting on John's stove. What began as an attempt at sunny-side up eggs had resulted in a congealed, vaguely brown mass that clung to the sides of the pan, and smelled faintly of sulphur.

"They're burnt, John–" The kid stopped short, interrupted by a sudden knock at the Exorcist's door. Exchanging a brief glance with his apprentice, Constantine stepped quickly across his apartment's yellowed linoleum floor, pulling on his shirtsleeves to straighten them before he met his visitor. Without unlatching the chain, John opened his beryl-green door the few inches his lock would allow; behind it stood the once-Angel Gabriel.

"Oh," John sneered bitterly, "it's you, _Gabriel_." He spat her name like vitriol, animosity for the creature's recent transgressions burning fiercely in his greeting. Without another word Constantine slammed his door shut, the definite bang resonating through his apartment with force enough to cause a rain of plaster dust to fall from his ceiling. With feigned indifference, John strode back toward his dismal, seldom-used kitchen. Before the Exorcist could shake the twinge of guilt, heavy and nagging in the pit of his stomach, another, much softer knock broke apartment's stillness. Chas cast a wary glance, first at his roommate, then at the dark-green door with the once-Angel behind it,

"You could just let her in John," the kid uttered a sort of nervous laugh, "she's just... human now, right? I mean she can't... hurt us, or... whatever, can she John?" Scowling, Constantine flicked his eyes from his protégé to the door and, muttering something under his breath, walked back to his entrance, unlatched the chain and motioned for her to enter. Tentatively, Gabriel stepped inside.

It was the first time John Constantine had seen her since that fateful night at Ravenscar. She still wore white and her hair, the colour of wheat and spun gold, still fell about her face in unchanged gentle waves; yet, in the damask-pink light that filtered through dark rosewood blinds and filled John's apartment, it was clear that she had lost an ethereal radiance once possessed. As she looked back at the Exorcist closing his door behind her, John could see that her eyes were red and bloodshot and her skin sickly pale.

"Have a seat," John began with forced civility, gesturing toward the table in the center of his flat; Gabriel obliged, sitting with her back to his wall of shuttered windows. "Can I help you?"

"I hoped so," she murmured cautiously, watching as Constantine poured himself a cup of black, bitter coffee, "I came to you because of a man I met – a minister." She paused, "He _frightens_ me."

"A priest frightens you?" The Exorcist's tone was flat, a balance of casual amusement at the creature's disquiet and annoyance at her presence that combined to sound of boredom, "Well, that's different." Gabriel bit her lip, oblivious to Constantine's cynical mockery,

"He means to harm me."

"What did he say?" Constantine questioned dryly, contemptuous sneer unseen behind his coffee mug.

"He asked me to give him my soul." The Exorcist stood silent for a moment, stepping out from his kitchen, nearer to the table where his guest sat. His coffee sat forgotten on his cracked and faded counter.

"A _priest_ said that? What's his name?"

"Father Francis," Gabriel followed John with her eyes as he paced his flat, "He knows of Mammon." Constantine released a short, caustic laugh,

"Yeah, I figured."

"What should I do?" A hint of desperate fear, subtle and almost indiscernible laced Gabriel's voice. Constantine didn't miss it.

"Avoid him." The Exorcist returned to his coffee, a snide smirk once again playing across his features, "There are some fucked up people in the world, Gabriel; nothing you can do." For a moment, John watched the woman in his apartment shift uneasily in her chair and tried to glean some satisfaction from her misery. Unable to be as wicked as he hoped, Constantine resigned himself to a begrudged scoff, "This priest isn't God or the Devil, Gabriel. He can't actually take your soul; not unless God or the Devil, or _you_ gave it to him." He sipped his coffee, "Somehow, I don't see that happening."

Silence followed the Exorcist's consolation. After several moments, Gabriel glanced at John and then Chas, and finally motioned to rise from the table – it was only after she did this that Constantine spoke again,

"The Archangel Michael is on our plane." He said it simply, gauging her reaction with feigned nonchalance. Gabriel blinked,

"Why?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I can't imagine why he would come here." The once-Angel trailed off, her voice harbouring a whisper of lamentation – something like sorrow. She brought her eyes to the Exorcist before she spoke again, "Did you speak to him?"

"Not really. I saw him at Midnite's bar." Constantine paused, "Apparently, he's here to deport a First Circle Demon that was raised from Hell a couple days ago." Gabriel shook her head,

"Him, here for something so simple? I don't believe it."

"It's what Midnite said."

"The witch-doctor lied? He swore the oath of neutrality; if he lied to you, then––" Constantine cut her off,

"I don't think he knows any more about this than I do." Gabriel scoffed,

"And you think somehow _I_ have the answer?" Her tone was only vaguely condescending. "John, if I could help you..."

"Talk to him. Find out what he wants, why he's really here." Constantine watched Gabriel look away, "_Come on_ Gabriel, you knew him, didn't you? You spent eternity together, you fought Lucifer by his side, you–" The once-Angel stood abruptly, the sliding of her chair on Constantine's floor silencing the Exorcist,

"That was a very long time ago." Her voice was sharp with pain; an answer to salt in an open sore. "In lieu of my recent... transgressions, I highly doubt the Archangel Michael would be willing to speak to me." John didn't say anything as Gabriel stepped away from the table, looking out the Exorcist's wall of shuttered windows at the grey grime of the sidewalks below, and the yellowing tenements across the street. Stripes of pink light shone through the blinds and lit her golden hair, still untouchable amid the city's slow ruin. The long silence was heavy enough to taste.

"I do worry about him. Michael... _hates_ Lucifer, as much, perhaps more than he loves humanity. His hatred is frightening – it borders on _sin_. When Michael defeated Lucifer and cast him from Paradise, there were no chains or bars to prevent Satan from rising to tempt humanity, or even from amassing an army and trying again to usurp God." She glanced up at Constantine, her eyes soft with sadness, "The only thing that keeps Lucifer in Hell is his own pride. For Michael, that was never good enough."

†††

Vivian Charbonneau woke in her bed to the sound of an early afternoon rain batting against her windows. With a breathless sigh, the lady turned on her side to gaze over the sleeping form of the Demon Balthazar. At some point in the night he had changed out of his suit and lay now with his back to her, his bare shoulders peeking out from under her duvet; covering part of his spine in the centre of his back was the tip of a white bandage, stark against his skin. The Necromancer let a small, rueful smile pass over her features as she flipped herself over, pulled back her bedspread and touched her feet to the floor. As silently as possible, Vivian crept out of bed, regretful of the nasty squeal of her bedroom door's hinges as she opened it, stepped into the hall and shut it softly behind her.

From the hallway, the tapping of rain on glass was louder still, filling the small, underground apartment and resonating off its walls. Absently, the woman stepped into her living room and stood before one of her high, narrow windows; reaching up, she turned a plastic rod to open her blinds to the storm.

The street outside her window was a monochrome wasteland. The storm was a downpour, rain falling in sheets that seemed to wash the colour from buildings and street-signs, trapping and carrying it down into the sewers. Rain in Los Angeles was a grey, dirty thing, hot and sticky and fetid. A sports-car sped down the street in front of Vivian's apartment, the coupe's tires dipping into a puddle that sprayed murky water onto the sidewalk and bathed the woman's window in slick grime. Across the street, Vivian saw a Catholic priest in full cassocks standing under a stoop. His fingertips were pressed together in a thoughtful steeple over his chest; despite the shelter of the doorway, his hair and clothes were soaked through. For a moment, the lady wondered if he was waiting.

Vivian didn't know how long she stood, gazing grey-faced out her apartment window before she noticed Balthazar standing behind her. She didn't hear the door squeak.

"How do you feel?" He asked placidly, his soft voice breaking the stillness of the dim apartment.

"Fine. I'm not in pain."

"Do you regret it?"

"No." She didn't turn around, but she could feel him smiling. "Do you?"

"I've wanted to make you mine for years."

"You've certainly had long enough to think about it." She half-turned her head to him as she spoke, frowning when she saw that he was wearing pants and a button-down shirt. "Why are you dressed?"

"I'm going to the hotel to collect the last of my effects."

"_Are you insane_?" Vivian's retort was at once harsh and nearly a whisper. She paused a moment after she spoke, shaking her head as she searched for words, "The Angels will hunt you down; after what you've done, they'd have to– they'd fight you, and you couldn't possibly defeat them all. They'll kill you; it's... _suicide_." The Necromancer looked up at him, features drawn in concern, "Have your things delivered."

"There are certain possessions of mine I would rather not have hotel staff rifle through."

"Then I'll go." Vivian's suggestion was more an order than an offer, "You were living at the Ritz-Carlton, weren't you?" The Demon attempted a coy smirk, self-assured and confident; in the light, his features bore a look of grim resignation.

"I can't spend the rest of my life hiding in your apartment."

"I don't want you to spend another day in Hell." For a brief moment her eyes met his – to break the glance she brushed past him, striding to her bedroom, "I'll get dressed."

Vivian Charbonneau's attempt at 'business casual' consisted of grey slacks and a long, charcoal button-down coat with a collar high enough to hide Balthazar's name, burned into her neck in black. She didn't bother tying her hair.

"Where's the room key?" she asked demurely, standing in her bedroom doorway.

"In the inside pocket of my suit jacket."

"Which one?"

"Navy. It's in your armoire." The lady disappeared, emerging with the article in hand. "Room 2400," Balthazar mentioned, watching her unfasten her apartment door's latch. Vivian paused a moment, resting her hands on her doorframe, caked purple with dried blood. Wordlessly, she left her underground flat and ascended to the rain-drenched city.

Outside, the storm was suffocating. Half a minute of standing in the rain and the Necromancer was drenched, her coat heavy with lukewarm rainwater and her hair plastered to her face like thick, black veins. Muttering cynicisms, Vivian Charbonneau walked quickly to the corner of her street and Frasier Avenue, waiting for a cab.

"Excuse me." The voice startled her though the speaker's tone was soft, even against the roar of the downpour. For a moment, the lady's heart raced – she turned, sighing when she saw that the man who'd addressed her was no more than a priest. He was young, she thought, and looked innocent because of it; bright-eyed, well-intentioned, dripping like a wet dog. Seeing her nervousness, the father smiled, and Vivian shivered in the hot rain. To quiet the trembling of her hands, she reached into her coat pocket for cigarettes. "You have something on your neck." Before Vivian could look up, the priest lifted his fingers to the collar of her coat, turning it down to show Balthazar's black scar. The Necromancer flicked her eyes up and for half a second met his – and all that Angelic softness left his features.

Without warning the Father reached into his robes and flicked her with holy water, brandishing a crystal vial. The droplets landed in a spray across her face, seemingly lost in the rainwater. The priest waited, and Vivian screamed.

The holy water on Vivian's skin felt like being burned with ice. The liquid was cool at first – inhumanly cold; slowly her skin sloughed off where the water had hit her, revealing the layers of raw, red flesh beneath. A drop of it landed in her eye and she buried her face in her hands, crying in fear and shock and pain. Before she could move, fight or run, two men, like bouncers or hired guns stepped out from a nearby alleyway; a silver Lincoln Towncar pulled up to the curb. The priest opened the back door, and the hit men threw her inside. Silent and inconspicuous as Death, the car drove off down the rain-slicked boulevard, and Father Francis walked back to his Church.


End file.
